Stunned, she looked up at him.
‘I was greatly angered by your outburst, but that does not mean I could not have offered you comfort at the time of your greatest distress.’ He reached out his hand.
This was as close to an apology as she would get, Aurelia realised. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, clutching at his fingers as she would have if she’d been drowning. Now the tears came anew. When he sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, she leaned into his body and let her grief out, more glad of the human touch than she had ever been in her life. To his great credit, Lucius did not say a word. He just held her tightly, his physical presence giving her the reassurance that someone cared.
Lucius continued to spend time with her and the baby over the next couple of days and his presence helped to take Aurelia’s mind off her sorrow a little. It certainly made having no papaverum easier to bear. Removing the flagon had been a good thing, she realised. Her cravings for it were far more intense than she’d expected. Aurelia dreaded to think what it would have been like if she had been consuming it for weeks rather than days. To her surprise, Lucius was also excellent with Publius, cuddling him, soothing him, walking around the courtyard as he talked to him. Aurelia began to reappraise her feelings towards her husband. Just because they were not made for each other did not mean that they could not get on. Perhaps this was the type of marriage that her mother had spoken of, she reflected. It wasn’t what she had dreamed of, with Hanno, but it seemed to work. And
that
was better than living in utter misery.
Just over a week had passed since the news of the defeat had reached Capua and the city was still in a state of constant panic. Ominous signs were reported daily: south of the city, a heavy storm had rained stones upon the earth; the divination tablets at Caere had somehow grown smaller; threatening figures in the likeness of men, dressed in white, had seemingly appeared in innumerable locations in the countryside. The priests in the city’s temples tried to issue explanations that offered some reassurance that the world was not about to end. According to Lucius, every soothsayer for a hundred miles had descended upon Capua to make the most of the population’s desire to know the future.
Fresh rumours swept the streets every day. The Roman dead at Cannae had been mutilated beyond recognition; Hannibal had ordered the torture and execution of every single prisoner taken by his men; a bridge had been built over the River Aufidius made of Roman bodies; he was marching on Rome, on Capua, on both, burning the towns in his path; a Carthaginian fleet had landed thousands of soldiers and scores of elephants on Sicily, or on the southern coast of Italy itself; King Philip of Macedon was about to join the war on the side of Carthage. Aurelia knew better than to believe all of the stories, but it was difficult not to feel unsettled by them, or by the fact that the disquiet had also seen a severalfold increase in crime. Unaccompanied women were liable to be raped in broad daylight. Foreigners such as Egyptians or Phoenicians had been attacked. Civil disorder had also become common. On a number of occasions, the magistrates had been forced to deploy troops to prevent near-riots becoming the full-blown article. In consequence, Lucius had forbidden anyone to go out without his specific approval. When he ventured forth, it was with half a dozen slaves armed with sticks. Ignoring the law that banned bladed weapons within the city confines, he himself never went without a sword. Aurelia was beginning to feel claustrophobic within the confines of the house, yet she was not about to argue with her husband’s decision.
Despite the social unrest and her confinement, her mood had achieved some degree of stability. Every moment of every day was still tinged with sorrow, but the routine of looking after the baby combined with Lucius’ support was helping Aurelia to cope. The torrential outpourings of grief had become occasional rather than constant. Things had also been made easier by Atia’s gentle insistence that they talk to each other. Aurelia had given in and, to her relief, their subsequent conversations – and shared tears – had helped their relationship, already made stronger by Aurelia’s pregnancy and the subsequent arrival of the baby, to enter a new phase of intimacy. It was as Aurelia remembered her childhood, when she had shared everything with her mother.
Another visitor that day – a welcome surprise – had been Martialis. The old man had aged greatly. New lines etched his face; his hair was now altogether white. Tears had filled his eyes the instant he saw Aurelia; the same had happened to her. They had embraced like father and daughter. Martialis had had no news, but, like Aurelia, he assumed that Gaius had fallen at Cannae. Thus far, all news of the Roman and allied cavalry had been catastrophic. United in their grief, they had reminisced for a short time about those they had lost, but it hadn’t taken long before their sorrow had killed the conversation. Unsurprisingly, it was the baby who had lifted the mood, gurgling with happiness as Martialis dandled him on his knee. When it was time for the old man to leave, he had done so with evident regret. Aware of how alone Martialis must have been feeling, Aurelia had insisted that he promise to call in again soon.
Later that day, Aurelia was dozing in a comfortable chair in the courtyard. Publius was asleep; her mother was in the kitchen, making arrangements for that evening’s dinner. Lucius had retired to his office to write letters to his family’s business partners in other cities. Aurelia was woken by a loud rap on the front door. Alarmed, she listened hard but heard no further sounds outside until the knock was repeated again, this time harder. Aurelia’s heart beat a little faster. Was it Phanes? There had been no recent news of him, but that did not mean he would never cause trouble again. Calm yourself, she thought. A dozen men could not break down that door. Besides, there were always two armed slaves on duty there. Lucius appeared not to have heard the summons, so she indicated to Statilius that he should see who it was.
There was a strange look on his face when he returned a moment later. Aurelia rose as he approached. ‘Statilius?’
‘There is a soldier outside. He wants to speak to you.’
‘What about?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
She felt the faintest ray of hope. ‘Is he a cavalryman? Or an allied infantryman?’
‘No, a regular legionary. A hastatus, I think.’
Aurelia’s hope died. She knew no citizen foot soldiers. What possible reason could one have to seek her out – other than to tell her something dreadful about the deaths of her father or brother? Dread took hold of her, but she batted it away. She felt a great compulsion to hear what the hastatus had to say. ‘Let him in.’
‘Do no such thing!’ cried Lucius, emerging into the courtyard. ‘We have no idea who he is.’
‘Yet it is possible that he has news for me,’ said Aurelia, heading towards the tablinum. ‘At the very least, I want to see his face. I can do that without admitting him.’
To her relief, Lucius did not try to stop her. Grumbling, he followed. Statilius took up the rear, his expression the picture of worry.
The slaves detailed to guard the house’s entrance were waiting by the door, clubs in hand. ‘Open the viewing port,’ she ordered. They eyed her warily, but when Lucius jerked his head, they rushed to obey. Swallowing her irritation that they had not done so at her command, Aurelia stepped up to the narrow rectangular opening. It was an unusual feature, but it meant the occupants could see whether it was safe to admit potential visitors. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight outside. A sturdy figure in a filthy, bloody tunic stood with his back to her. A battered helmet, missing its feathers, covered his head; a square plate protected the upper part of his torso front and back; she could see that he was armed with a sword. By the set of his slumped shoulders, he was exhausted.
‘Well?’ hissed Lucius.
‘He’s facing in the other direction.’ Aurelia coughed to attract the soldier’s attention.
He turned, and her mouth fell open. The unexpected uniform, the line of scabs on his jaw, the rings beneath his grey eyes, the layer of grime on every part of his exposed skin could not conceal who it was. ‘Quintus!’
‘Aurelia?’ He covered the ground to the door in a heartbeat. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, yes, it is I!’ Weeping with joy, she ripped at the bolts.
‘It’s your brother?’ Lucius was by her side, helping.
‘Yes. Thank all the gods, he’s alive!’
Brother and sister fell into each other’s arms the instant the door opened. They clung to one another with a fierceness and a joy that neither had ever felt before. Uncaring of who might see or hear, that Quintus stank of sweat and blood, that Lucius might disapprove, Aurelia sobbed her heart out. He shook with emotion, but shed no tears, instead transferring his feelings into their embrace.
‘I thought you had joined the socii infantry,’ said Aurelia eventually, remembering his letter.
‘I only said that in case Father tried to find me.’
She laughed. ‘What does it matter where you were? I cannot believe you are here. The news was so bad. It seemed impossible that you could have survived.’
He pulled back a little and gave her a sad smile. ‘I damn near didn’t.’ She let out another laugh, but nervous this time, and his face grew even more serious. ‘It was Corax, my centurion, who saved us. He kept the maniple together even when the units around us were collapsing and trying to flee. Rounded up a few more men. Spotted the weak point in the enemy line and smashed a hole in it wide enough for us to escape. If he hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Thank all the gods! Have you seen Father, or heard any news of him? Or of Gaius?’ Or Hanno? she wanted to add, even though he could have no way of knowing that.
‘Gaius I have seen, but Father . . .’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘He wasn’t among the few cavalrymen who joined up with us at Canusium after our retreat, nor with those who straggled in over the following couple of days. Word came that about fifty riders had escaped with the consul Varro to Venusia, so I went there as well. I had no joy.’ A heavy sigh. ‘I would have searched the battlefield, massive as it is, but the enemy camp is still close by. To venture anywhere near the place is to commit suicide.’
Aurelia’s heart sank. ‘You did what you could. We will pray that he reappears out of nowhere, like you and Gaius,’ she said, determined to remain positive. ‘If one miracle can happen, why not two?’
He nodded. ‘Let us hope so.’
It was even possible that Hanno had not been killed, thought Aurelia. She did not feel traitorous for adding him to her prayers. ‘Come in. Mother will be overjoyed to see you.’
His face lit up. ‘Martialis said I would find her here too.’ Entering, he offered his hand to Lucius. ‘My pardon for not introducing myself immediately. I am Aurelia’s brother, Quintus Fabricius. You must be Aurelia’s husband.’
‘Lucius Vibius Melito,’ said Lucius, clasping Quintus’ hand with his own. ‘It’s an honour to meet you.’
‘Likewise. My congratulations on your union.’ He saw Lucius staring at his garb. ‘You’re wondering why I am dressed as an ordinary hastatus?’
‘It is . . . unusual,’ Lucius replied, a little awkwardly.
‘I never would have imagined you as an infantryman,’ said Aurelia, smiling.
‘It’s a long story. I can tell you later.’
‘This way.’ Aurelia led the way, eager to find their mother. ‘Have you been granted leave?’
A derisive snort. ‘No one has been allowed that. Varro is gradually regrouping the army, but it will take weeks before order is restored. So many of the officers are dead; the majority of men have been separated from their units – if those units even exist any more. Basically, it’s complete chaos. Corax told us that he wouldn’t “notice” if any of his men wanted to go and visit their families, as long as we swore to return within a couple of weeks. He said that the consuls had’ – here he threw an embarrassed look at Lucius – ‘fucked up so much that we were entitled to it. Gaius has had no such luck. His commander is a complete martinet. I had to carry the good news of his survival to Martialis on his behalf.’
‘Your centurion sounds like quite a man,’ said Lucius thoughtfully.
A gurgling cry from Publius carried down the hallway. Quintus laughed. ‘That must be your baby. Martialis spoke fondly of him.’
Aurelia beamed. ‘It’s our son, Publius. He was born a few weeks ago.’
‘It is good to know that life is still entering the world.’ The light in Quintus’ eyes darkened for a moment, but he rallied himself. ‘It’s another reason to raise a toast.’
‘Life goes on. Publius is part of the new generation,’ said Aurelia, remembering with dread how she’d taunted the gods, and praying that nothing further came of it. ‘Mother says that he looks a little like you at the same age.’
‘Aha! I cannot wait to meet him.’ Quintus grinned and for the first time, Aurelia really saw her brother again through the grime. On impulse, she entwined her arm with his.
‘It is so wonderful to see you!’
‘And you, sister. After what has happened, I did not think ever to see such a happy day again.’
Walking with Quintus and Lucius to find her son and Atia, Aurelia let her heart sing. Her grief for her father had not diminished, but she would return to it another time. For now, she would live in this moment. Rejoice that her remaining family had been reunited, and that Gaius had also come through the inferno of Cannae. Cherish in her heart the hope that, somewhere to the south, Hanno was alive too.
After the horror of the previous days, that seemed enough.
Author’s Note
When the opportunity to write a set of novels about the Second Punic War (218–201
BC
) came my way, I jumped at the chance. I have been fascinated by the time period since I was a boy, and I, like many, regard this as one of history’s most hallowed episodes. The word ‘epic’ is overused today, but I feel that its use is justified with reference to this seventeen-year struggle, the balance of which was uncertain on so many occasions. If it had tipped but a fraction in the opposite direction during a number of those situations, life in Europe today would be very different. The Carthaginians were quite unlike the Romans, and not in all the bad ways ‘history’ would have us believe. They were intrepid explorers and inveterate traders, shrewd businessmen and brave soldiers. Where Rome’s interests so often lay in conquest by war, theirs lay more in assuming power through controlling commerce and natural resources. It may be a small point, but my use of the word ‘Carthaginian’ rather than the Latin ‘Punic’ when referring to their language is quite deliberate. The Carthaginians would not have used the latter term.